


suspended synchrony

by antikytheras



Category: Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Rituals, Spirits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:28:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23526145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antikytheras/pseuds/antikytheras
Summary: Far beyond the reaches of a dream, something stirs.
Relationships: Kibana | Raihan & Rurina | Nessa
Kudos: 17





	suspended synchrony

The spirits are silent while he mixes up a paste of blood and ash in his mortar. Vigour and repose, life and decay— polar opposites that would not ordinarily meet, but he has plenty of practice bridging the impossible.

The grind of stone-on-stone is a familiar sound that lulls him to that half-lidded space between sleeping and waking. His right forearm still stings, the cut still fresh along the line of his vein, but already he can feel the blood cooling to a sticky layer. The sensation is a reassuring constant, much like all of the other ancient rituals he has performed countless times as a priest of his people.

The pool before which he kneels is an endless abyss of black in the darkness of the cave. Though the sun shone bright by the entrance, no light is allowed to reach into the deepest depths. And yet—

And yet.

Delicate white flowers line the rim of the natural stone pool. Their roots creep over the edge of the pool and dip into the unknown depths like blood running down the side of an infinitely smooth wall. The flowers are suffused with the same incandescent glow as the spirits.

Raihan stills.

Far beyond the reaches of a dream, something stirs.

He puts the pestle aside, heedless of the black stain it is sure to leave on the ground. With the bowl in his left hand, he dips two of his fingers into the abhorrent mixture and begins to write on the polished stone slab before him.

In his ears, his heart is a slow, steady beat.

Once he is done, he scoops up some of the blood-and-ash one last time. The paste is cool gritty mud when he draws a line that connects the arteries on either side of his neck.

When he allows his hands to drop back into his lap, there is no trace of the paste on his fingers. There is none on the ground by the unmarked pestle, nor is there any in the now-empty mortar bowl. He does not need to look to know.

With his left hand, he reaches for the wavy-bladed dagger tucked into the belt securing his robes. The handle is deathly cold.

He presses the blade to his throat with all his strength and intent to kill. For a moment, he wonders if this is finally it, if this will be the time that the spirits find his halves inadequate, if he is no longer fit to serve as a vessel for the spirits—

—and the abhorrent paste gives a silent gurgle when it pours down the front of his robes. His throat remains unmaimed, intact and untouched. His skin is unnaturally warm.

He wonders if it is blasphemous for him to hate this part of the ritual the most.

The spirit possessing him seems disinclined to comment.

His hands are his when they sheathe the dagger and pick up the stone slab, but they are not his when he pauses to touch the surface with tender reverence. He reads the name written in his blood and a stranger’s ash, but the sorrow that weighs down his gaze is so foreign it might as well belong to that very stranger.

‘Go,’ he says in a voice that is not wholly his own.

And then he slips the slab into the surface of the black water, under which it sinks with barely a ripple. For a second, he sees his face reflected in the smooth polished stone, but then the moment passes and it is gone.

He emerges from the cave to find Nessa waiting for him.

The other priest takes in the mud caking the front of his robes with one eyebrow raised. ‘I see you are as messy as ever.’

Raihan shrugs. ‘Take it up with the spirits.’

The harshness in her eyes softens, and she lifts one hand to rest a palm against the fabric cloaking his chest, right over his slow-beating heart.

By the time she pulls away, the mud is gone, as is the invisible vice-grip around his heart. ‘You can’t let them stay too long,’ she reminds him, but her touch had been gentle.

They return to the village at a brisk pace nevertheless.

Nessa knocks on the door of the village elder’s house while Raihan does his best to pretend that he is not struggling to catch his breath.

The door opens immediately. ‘Come in,’ the elder says, hobbling back into the house. Her fingers are a constant drum against the round head of her wooden walking stick.

They sit in her tiny but functional audience hall, Nessa taking her place at the seat of honour while Raihan sits by her right. They wait in silence for the elder to hobble back out with a tray containing tiny china cups of green tea and a pot full of more of the bitter brew.

The elder slowly falls to her knees and presents the tray before her while she bows. Raihan tries not to flinch.

‘Thank you,’ Nessa murmurs, and that seems enough to break the spell of stiff, performative formality.

They watch, unmoving, as the elder struggles back to her feet. ‘It is I who should be thanking you,’ she confesses. ‘To think that we would be graced by the half-gods—’

‘We are only close to the gods in the same way that the pious are to the afterlife,’ Nessa says, not unkindly. ‘It is we who should thank you for your village’s hospitality. Let your worries wash away.’

The elder relaxes, so Raihan takes the time to drink the tea that has been ceremoniously offered to him.

‘I must still thank you for completing the rites,’ the elder insists, but with more warmth and less fear this time.

Nessa brings her own teacup to her lips, so Raihan takes his cue. ‘That ritual is important. It is my duty to perform it.’

‘We have not had people willing to walk your path,’ the elder confesses with a pained expression. ‘I did not think that we would ever—’

‘It is a calling,’ Nessa interjects. ‘It would be unwise to push anyone on this path if they do not have the desire to communicate with ancient spirits in their blood.’

They do not speak of the disappearing priests, or of their dwindling numbers.

The village elder grants them full permission to wander all of the village, regardless of whether it is off-limits to the men or to the women, but by the time night falls, they are already packed up and ready to go. The villagers give them bread and cheese and cured meats to last several days’ journey, but no one has the bravery to bid them stay.

They would not stay anyway.

Breathing comes a little more easily now that the spirit no longer has a grip on Raihan. Nessa’s steps are steady and sure as she leads them back into the forest.

‘They were very friendly,’ Raihan comments, if only to make light conversation.

Nessa says nothing for a long time. Under the swathes of her cloak, there is little to betray her emotions. Then, she replies, ‘They needed a favour.’

The food is a heavy weight in their traveling bags.

‘You don’t trust people, do you?’

‘I trust you,’ she says easily, ‘because you’re like me.’

He snorts. ‘I figured. It’s the only reason we’re still traveling together, isn’t it?’

Her gaze is as sharper than the blade of his knife when she glances back at him. ‘That, and if we are caught, it will be simple to convince them that you are a man, and that I am a woman. It is a convenient arrangement.’

It would be a lie for Raihan to say that he has not come to the same conclusion. ‘Fair enough.’

They continue making their way through the forest, each of them listening to the cry of the trees and the spirits rustling around them in equal measure.

**Author's Note:**

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